


And I Hope When You Think of Me Years Down the Line, You Can't Find One Good Thing to Say

by Villain_Complex (Random_Fandom_writer)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Descent into Madness, Evil Morgana (Merlin), Gen, Good and Evil, Guilt, Implied Relationships, Magic, Metaphors, No Dialogue, Parallels, Post-Episode: s02e12 The Fires of Idirsholas, Short, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Fandom_writer/pseuds/Villain_Complex
Summary: With his nails fisted into the dirt, head bowed to the floor, he begs for forgiveness to the soul he was too slow to save.
Relationships: Merlin & Morgana (Merlin)
Kudos: 8





	And I Hope When You Think of Me Years Down the Line, You Can't Find One Good Thing to Say

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "No Children" by The Mountain Goats.

His magic feels like home.

His magic is damp leaves, and dew dotted petals after fresh rainfall. Like fingers sinking into grass, and dipping into the dirt beneath, parting easily for the gentle, sure hands of it's master. It is soil, and stone, and thick, sickly roots _wrappingwrappingwrapping_ regretfully around the woman who despite it all, deserves it.

It tastes of Ealdor.

Of fresh bread straight from the oven, and the hard bitter crunch as it turns stale not but a week later. Like the lingering sweetness of the rare honeyed wine he would steal (though he'd swear up and down it wasn't him as he casts a nervous glance to the scraggly brown haired boy behind him) when the merchants travelling through town turned their backs, and the unpleasant burn it left in his throat as he vomited it up the next morning.

And with his nails fisted into the dirt, head bowed to the floor, he begs for forgiveness to the soul he was too slow to save.

His magic is the earth, and all that comes from it. 

Her magic feels like Camelot.

Her magic is a bright, cloudless sky, shedding light upon each and every corner of grey stone walls. Like a strong wind, pushing up against the hands of the person (who is not it's master. Not yet) still unable to control it. It is sun, and wind, and the force of a gale, _lashinglashinglashing_ out, and carrying away the ones too slow to escape the crossfire. 

It smells of the pyre.

Of blood and tissue mixing amongst charred wood, leaving a metallic taste upon the tongue, and an acrid stench to clog the senses. Like bile bubbling up the throat, and eating through soft tissue- not unlike the way flames feed off the bones that built Camelot's walls in the first place. 

And with her head thrown back, soul bared to the stars, she sips on the blood of those who burned for her.

Her magic is the sky, and all that comes from it.

And the earth and the sky intermingled in a dance all too complex to quite understand. Something so intricate only a sparse few could have began to comprehend the strange bond between two beings so separate from one another.

But the earth and the sky were never meant to touch.

The earth and the sky will never touch again.

**Author's Note:**

> My key to writing is to open my mind and body to allow any stray spirits or ghosts who might feel up to a little body snatching, and letting them go absolutely ham on my keyboard. Ghosts have so much pent up angst festering inside of them just ready to burst out, don't you know? Thanks Ghosts!


End file.
